


Catch Your Breath

by JustMakeLeftTurns



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Cutting, Depression, Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Self Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-08 09:20:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustMakeLeftTurns/pseuds/JustMakeLeftTurns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Iceland can't deal with the emotional pain of being a nation, so he turns to physical pain. Any time he finds himself not able to breathe, a cut to his wrist clears his lungs. And then Finland finds out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Breathe Again

He watches as Norway yet again ditches him. Norway pretends he hates Denmark, but Iceland knows that, at the very least, the two are brothers. But what about him? Norway is biologically his brother, so why isn’t there bonding between them? Is he really that weak? That unwanted? Denmark is always teasing him. Iceland knows it’s just teasing. Right? He doesn’t rely on Norway. He doesn’t get jealous. He isn’t anti-social.

Right?

He’s just … quiet. He doesn’t like getting involved in other people’s affairs. And if Norway doesn’t express an interest in talking with him, then he’ll let things be. And him, jealous? As if. He’s perfectly fine on his own. He hasn’t changed much in several years. He doesn’t want to conform to other people’s needs.

And yet he finds that he has. He’s even quieter than he’d been before discovering he and Norway are brothers. He goes along with other countries’ incessant teasing. After all, it’s just a few jokes here and there, they’re not trying to hurt him. 

Norway doesn’t know of the teasing. In fact, he does some teasing, too, by trying to get Iceland to call him ‘onii-chan’. Iceland thinks this is ridiculous. Neither of them speaks Japanese, but Norway insists on being called that. A few times, Iceland gives in, and each time, he feels part of himself break. Being obedient isn’t who he is. Being treated as a child when he is centuries old is frustrating.

But he just sits back and lets it happen.

Even though he has to hold back tears of embarrassment until he returns home, it’s worth it. The other countries are getting a laugh, right? Norway doesn’t notice – or doesn’t care – so it must not matter, right? He’s a big boy, he can handle it. And when he can’t – when he’s either so numb he doesn’t know what to feel, or he’s so upset and angry he needs an outlet – he turns to his only friend.

No, not Mr. Puffin, who teases him just as everyone else does. The blade of an old razor. The way it slices through his skin is marvelous, so precise and smooth. The way the blood exits through the cuts is magical, for they form little pictures on his arms as the red drips down from his wrists to his arms. The pain reminds him that he’s still there, that he hasn’t broken. The tightness in his chest lifts, and he is able to breathe again. Afterwards, he prepares for the next onslaught of teasing. And Norway either pestering him or ignoring him.

As soon as he sees Norway and Denmark leave, he heads to his bedroom. He doesn’t bother to close his door – he’s the only one home now, and no one cares enough about him to show up. He reaches under his bed for a pencil case. Inside it are razors other sharp objects, as well as gauze and other supplies to prevent infection. He removes his gloves and grabs his favorite razor – the one he usually carries around with him. He sits on his bed, cross-legged, and marks his wrist.

He gasps at the pain. With the pain comes clarity and peace, two things that he desperately needs. He needs more, though, and so cuts again. And again. And again. He wants all of the numbness away, wants the pain of being ignored and teased gone. Physical pain is much easier to control than emotional pain. Physical pain controls his emotional pain temporarily. Physical pain is easier to focus on.

And then it’s gone. He’s brought back into focus when a hand covers the one holding the blade. It’s not his hand. That’s all he knows. The other thing he knows is that’s he’s been caught. He’s going to be forced to stop, and he doesn’t want to stop. He needs the pain.

The not-his-hand gently pries the blade away from his grasp and places it out of his sight. He refuses to look up, afraid to see who has caught him. Whoever it is doesn’t speak, but the air is tense, and Iceland knows that the other person is close to tears. Or maybe is crying silently. The other person finds the pencil case, removes the supplies to clean his cuts, and places the case far away. Neither of them speaks as the other person cleans and wraps his wrist.

Afterwards, the other person sits in front of him. The other is patient, and waits for him to speak. A few minutes – or hours – pass before Iceland can’t stand it anymore. He lifts his head slowly to meet the eyes of the other. 

Seeing Finland makes a torrent of emotion run through him. He holds back his emotions. Finland doesn’t want to see them. But seeing Finland staring at him with sad, horror-filled eyes, waiting for him to speak, but not crying, Iceland bursts into tears. He latches onto Finland and cries. Finland holds him close, murmuring words of comfort in his ear. It is then that Iceland is reminded how the small man is, indeed, older than he is, and this makes him cry harder for reasons unknown. 

“We’ll fix this, Iceland, we’ll help you,” Finland says quietly, rocking the two of them gently. “You aren’t alone. I’m here. I’m here.”

Iceland is thankful that Finland doesn’t ask the dreaded ‘why’. He knows that Finland doesn’t understand and will never understand. He doesn’t want to stop, but he doesn’t tell the other this. He just allows himself to be comforted, at least for the time being.


	2. I Can't

It’s only been two days since he was caught. Caught … How could he have been so careless? And why … why did he cry like that in front of Finland? Iceland rubs his wrist, relishes in the pain the action brings him. He lost his cool in front of someone else. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He needs to be more careful. He needs to be more collected. No one wants to see his emotions. No one wants him around. He needs to … He needs …

Anxiety bubbles up in his stomach and spreads up through his throat and into his head. He can’t breathe, he can’t think. He feels like he’s suffocating. He needs to free the emotions locked inside of him. He needs to breathe. He needs to breathe.

He jumps from his chair and runs out of the meeting room, ignoring the stares of the rest of the world. His vision is getting hazy. His thoughts are on one thing, and one thing only – blood. Pain. Cut.

He needs it. He needs it so badly he can’t describe it. It’s getting harder and harder to fight the urge. He slams open the bathroom door, closes it, brings a razor blade to his wrist. Almost immediately, the pressure is gone from his throat, his lungs. He can breathe. He looks at his reflection in the mirror, sees for the first time the tears on his face. He glares at his reflection. Emotion is bad. No one wants to see it. Not even he does.

He returns his gaze to his bloody wrist. It’s not enough. It’s never enough. He cuts a few more times, watches in relief as blood pours out of his body and into the sink. It’s a little difficult to cut, due to his shaking hands. But no matter. He can still bleed. He isn’t gone yet. He isn’t broken yet.

“Iceland,” a voice gasps. He whirls to face the man, Finland. His gut and his heart weigh heavily inside of him. Caught. Caught again. Now Finland will know he lied about getting help. Now … now what?

Finland takes a few steps forward. Iceland takes a few steps back. Finland reaches his hand out. “Iceland, please. We can fix this. You just need to trust me.”

Iceland shakes his head rapidly, clutches the razor blade to his chest, ignores the blood staining his clothes and the floor. Finland wants to take the pain away. He wants to take away the only thing that keeps Iceland sane. He wants to ‘fix’ him. But there’s nothing to fix. There isn’t.

“Iceland …” Finland trails off, drops his hand, looks a bit lost. “At least let me help bandage your wrist.”

Iceland thinks carefully, weighs his options. In the end, he decides to let Finland help wrap his cuts, as long as the smaller man doesn’t try to take away his blade. He slips the razor blade, blood and all, back into his pocket before taking a wary step closer. Finland cleans and wraps his wrist gently. Iceland wishes he wasn’t so gentle. He wants the pain. He wants it so bad.

Iceland tries to exit the bathroom, but Finland doesn’t release his arm. “Let me go.”

Finland shakes his head, eyes determined. “No. You need help, Iceland, whether you want it or not. You know you need help!”

“No, I don’t!” he snaps. He pulls at his arm. Finland tightens his grip. “You don’t understand!” he cries, almost whines. He feels close to tears. Again.

“Then help me understand! Make me understand!” Finland shouts back, eyes watering. “I just want to help.”

“Well, I don’t want your help! I want you to leave me alone!”

“Why do you cut?”

No. Not the dreaded ‘why’ question. Iceland freezes. Does he have an answer? Does he want one? Will he give one? He doesn’t know why, and yet he does. But can he really put it into words? Does he even want to?

“Because I need it,” is what he settles for saying, voice considerably lower.

Finland, too, has calmed down. “No, you don’t. Tell me what’s wrong so that we can fix it.”

“There’s nothing to fix,” Iceland snaps, eyes staring at the ground.

“Yes there is. You wouldn’t do this if there was nothing wrong.”

Iceland remains quiet. He doesn’t have an answer. He can’t give one. He can’t explain. He’s never been good at words. He’s never been good at a lot of things. But keeping quiet, keeping out of the way, keeping his emotions in check – those are things he’s good at. He’s good at keeping to himself.

“Why do you cut?” Finland repeats gently. Iceland chokes back a sob, but tears still manage to escape.

“I can’t stop,” he says, broken.

And that’s when he realizes, that he is broken. Cutting, keeping to himself, pleasing others – he’s broken. Cutting doesn’t keep him together. It breaks him even more. He looks at the scars on one wrist, the bandages on the other, this time with new eyes. He’s broken. But does it matter? Finland wants to help fix him. Does he want to be fixed?

“I don’t want to stop,” Iceland says forlornly.


	3. Traps

It isn’t supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be him and Finland. No one else. Finland – Finland promised. But he lied. Iceland sits on the edge of the couch, hands clutching onto his knees. Denmark and Sweden sit across from him. Finland and Norway sit on either side of him. They all stare at him intently.

Finland told them that he has something to say.

He doesn’t want to say the real thing. He can’t, just like he can’t stop the bleeding, the cutting, the pain. He can’t, and he won’t. But if he lies to them, Finland will tell them. And then … then what? What will happen?

He doesn’t want to tell them, but he doesn’t want to lie, either. So he stays silent. He glares at the ground, imagines that he is glaring at Finland instead. It’s all Finland’s fault that he’s … that he’s trapped.

Finland sighs, almost too quietly for anyone to hear. But for once, everyone is silent – Finland made them listen. Iceland wishes they were loud, like usual, so they wouldn’t hear what he knows is going to come out of Finland’s mouth.

“You guys, Iceland is cutting himself,” he hears Finland say. He then hears the entire room gasp. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Norway bury his face in his hands. Sweden tenses, the only noticeable difference. Denmark gapes openly.

He needs to fix this. This, this is all wrong. They think there’s something wrong with him, but there really isn’t. He needs to make it clear to them that he’s fine. “It’s not a big deal,” he says, tries to write it off as nothing.

Denmark is angry. “You think that cutting yourself isn’t a big deal?” he shouts. Iceland flinches, tries to hide it, grips his knees tighter, continues glaring at the floor. “You –”

“C’n w’ s’e?” Sweden interrupts. Iceland pauses. He removes his gloves and places them beside him. He rolls up his sleeves just enough so the cuts on his wrists are more visible. Silence.

“I tried to help,” Finland tells the others. “But he won’t listen to me. And besides, you guys deserved to know.”

Sweden studies his scars. Denmark looks away, despite his best efforts not to. Finland has seen them enough and can’t bear to see them again – he focuses on Sweden instead. Norway lifts his head – Iceland can see his look of utter despair on his usually blank face, feels his heart sink – and traces the scars with a finger.

“Why?” Sweden asks.

“You don’t understand,” Iceland says weakly.

Norway looks at him, the first time since Finland told everyone. Iceland is frightened by how open his face and eyes are. “What did we do?”

Startled, Iceland looks up at Norway. Once their eyes are connected, he can’t look away. “Huh?”

Norway holds Iceland’s hand. “How did we push you to this?” he demands. “What did we do? What did I do? Iceland, what can we do to fix this?”

Angry, Iceland rips his hand from Norway’s grip. “I don’t need to be fixed! I’m perfectly fine!”

“Stop saying that!” Denmark yelled. “You’re hurting yourself. Just tell us what to do!”

Iceland’s chest constricts. He can’t breathe, he can’t think. Tears try to fall onto his cheeks; he has to work to keep them in his eyes. He needs a release. He needs to breathe. He can’t breathe, he needs to breathe, he can’t think – He presses his nails into his wrist until blood is drawn, but in doing so he loses his concentration on his tears, so they fall, too – and he’s so vulnerable and weak and it’s not supposed to be like this why won’t they leave him alone –

Finland gently pries his hands apart. Iceland can think a little more clearly but not very much so, and he can breathe a little better but not much so, and he still needs release and he still needs to breathe and he needs something sharp, now now now –

He stands up. He needs to get away, go somewhere he can cut, where he can bleed and free himself and breathe. Norway spins him around with strength Iceland didn’t know the man has. Norway is worried, he can tell, and he feels so bad and useless and stupid and he needs the physical pain it’s so much better than this, this emotional pain, at least he can control the physical –

“Iceland, talk to us,” Norway says calmly. Too calmly, too calmly, can’t he see that Iceland can’t breathe? “What are you feeling? What’s wrong?”

And he has to tell them because otherwise they won’t understand and they won’t let him go and he has to tell them. “I-I need it,” he sobs, breathless. “I-I can’t … I can’t breathe. I need it, please, Norway, I need it.” He knows he’s begging but it’s bad bad bad.

Norway’s crying. Maybe he understands? “No, you don’t need it,” he says, voice shaking. Then, more firmly, “You don’t need it.”

Iceland tries to reopen the wounds with his nails, but Norway holds them apart. Denmark has gotten up and is standing behind him, and Finland and Sweden are watching him closely, and he’s trapped and he needs to get out and he needs to breathe.

“We’re here, Icey,” Denmark says, serious, for once. “Talk to us.”

“Let it out,” Finland says softly. “Cry, yell, whatever you need to do, just … don’t hurt yourself.”

He’s starting to calm down … but … he doesn’t understand he shouldn’t be able to breathe the physical pain the knife it’s supposed to help but … but … his mind’s starting to clear. Maybe … maybe he’ll be okay this time …

“I need it,” Iceland pleads halfheartedly, but he’s calmed down.

And that’s when he realizes – he doesn’t need it. He calmed down on his own, with the help of his family. He … he doesn’t understand. But then, he does understand, at the same time.

He looks at Norway. “Big brother … I need help.” His voice cracks, but it’s okay, because Norway pulls him into a hug, and soon Denmark is hugging him and then Finland is and then Sweden reluctantly joins in.

He’s trapped again, in the middle of the hug, but maybe being trapped isn’t a bad thing.


	4. Heal

He slipped up, because that’s what he does. He’s useless and stupid and unwanted. He hadn’t cut in two weeks, thanks to the careful watchfulness of the other Nordics – of his family. Whenever he couldn’t breathe, one of them was always there to talk him through it. He told them what he was feeling, what thoughts went on in his head. He thought he was getting better.

And then he slipped up.

It isn’t his fault. It’s theirs. All their fault. They aren’t there. Why aren’t they there? He needs them – bad. But he’s alone. Forgotten. And those are the words that spur on his cutting. He can’t breathe, and it’s bad – the worst it’s been in a while. He tries to talk out his feelings to himself, but it only makes him feel worse, makes it even more difficult to breathe. His cell phone is in his pocket, so he can call someone – but if they don’t pick up, he’ll feel even worse.

So he picks up the razor and slices his skin. He watches, mesmerized, as the blood leaks out. He’s sitting on the couch – the blood will stain, but he doesn’t care. All he cares about is that his airways are opening again, slowly. But it’s not enough. So he cuts again. The pain, the clarity, the easiness of his breathing envelop him, and he wonders why he ever stopped.

Briefly, briefly, he pictures the faces of his family in his mind. They’ll be so disappointed in him. They’ll watch him even closer – but then, why aren’t they here, right now? Iceland doesn’t know what he wants in the long run. Does he want them to watch him? Does he want to stop? He does and he doesn’t. He does and he doesn’t. Everything confuses him, so he does the one thing that doesn’t – he cuts.

But then his hands are forced apart, and he cuts a little bit diagonally. The razor is removed, and is replaced by gloved hands. Iceland forces himself to look up, heart pounding, breathing picking up. It’s Norway, crying, his face an open book. Iceland flinches. He is the only one who can ever get Norway to show his true emotions. Norway holds Iceland’s hand up to his lips, lightly kisses them, then brings the hand up to his forehead.

“Can you stop?” Iceland croaks. It scares him how Norway is crying. It’s creepy how affectionate he’s being. “People will think you like me or something.” It looks that way to outsiders, they both know it. But they also both know that Norway is scared and needs physical contact to keep himself grounded.

Norway eventually drops his hand. Iceland sits patiently as Norway wraps his wrist. He hates how vulnerable he is, hates how Norway cares, hates how he slipped up.

“What happened?” Norway demands, eyes swimming with concern.

Iceland shrugs nonchalantly. “It doesn’t matter.” And it really doesn’t. Because Norway is there, now. And the cutting has already done its job – Iceland is calm and sharp.

Norway tenses. “It matters, Iceland.” Iceland avoids Norway’s eyes. “I want to know why you hurt yourself.”

Iceland tries to shrug off the emotions threatening to burst. He will not cry. He’s done enough of that. It was a mistake to try to stop in the first place. Yes, cutting is wrong, but he can’t stop. A part of him doesn’t want to.

“You were doing so well …” Norway continues, trying to prompt Iceland to answer.

“Well, obviously, I wasn’t,” Iceland snaps, glaring at Norway.

Iceland watches as Norway struggles to come up with something to say. As he waits, he feels his brief anger deflate. He leans back into the cushions of the couch, trying to play off his strange emotions that he can’t control.

“Why didn’t you call?” Norway settles upon saying.

Iceland shrugs and looks away. “I didn’t think anyone cared enough. It’s my problem, anyway. The cutting.”

Norway frowns. Iceland swallows the knot in his throat. “You should have called. We care about you, Iceland. I don’t know what we did to make you think we didn’t. But we love you. We want to help.”

“Then why weren’t you there?” Iceland asks. He sounds a bit accusatory, a bit broken.

“Iceland, I didn’t know,” Norway pleads with him. Iceland takes a shaky breath. “I would have been here if I knew.”

It’s quiet for a few minutes. Iceland forces back tears, tries to maintain his strong appearance, although he’s certain he looks as fragile as he feels. Norway watches him, bites his lip thoughtfully. They can both feel the tension in the air. However much Iceland had opened up in the last two weeks had shut tight again. Iceland doesn’t plan on opening an inch. Norway is determined to get past Iceland’s wall.

“We will get through this,” Norway says. Iceland doesn’t react. “You hear me, Iceland? You will get through this. We’ll fix you. I promise.”

Iceland fiddles with his fingers. He stares down at his feet, wishing that he could disappear. “Sometimes … sometimes, I don’t want to heal,” he confesses, voice shaking. “Sometimes, I want to stay like this.”

Norway surprises him by bringing him into a hug. “No, you don’t,” he says into Iceland’s hair. “You think you do, but you don’t.” Norway pulls away slightly to look Iceland in the eyes. “We are going to help you. And you are going to get better.”

Iceland doesn’t disagree. He just lets his brother hold him. He doesn’t know how long it will take, or if the urge will ever go away, but he will stop cutting. Eventually. At least, that’s what he tries to convince himself.


	5. Blood

It takes all of his strength not to pull out his hair, to scream to the world, “I’m still here!” Instead, he keeps his usual façade on, pretending to not be interested in anything around him. In reality, he pays attention to every little detail, especially those concerning the other Nordics.

He clenched his gloved fists. They don’t even notice him that much anymore. The only time they talk to him is to get free drinks or food. Or they try to get him to call Norway ‘Onii-chan’. Right. Like that’s going to happen.

He watches as Finland sits just a bit too close to Sweden. He watches as Denmark annoys Norway – as usual – and Norway strangles him with his own tie. He blinks back tears. Where does he fit in to that picture? That’s right. Not at all.

He remembers a time where all four of them paid attention to him, where he was the newest land and they all wanted to show him off. He was the center of attention. He hated it. But now, perhaps the attention wasn’t all that bad. He misses it, whether he admits it or not.

But he’s old news. And he doesn’t go with the whole ‘Nordic’ picture. He shouldn’t be surprised. The four of them are bunched together. His island is closer to England and Greenland than it is to any of them. But that doesn’t mean they’re not his family. Or, at least, he thought they were his family. He isn’t so sure anymore.

He thinks back to the last time they cared. His fingers trace the scars on his wrists absentmindedly. He used to cut them, with the blade of an old razor. It was sharp and precise. He loved the sight of the blood, reminding him that he was, indeed, alive. He loved the pain, reminding him that he hadn’t lost himself completely.

He hated it when the other Nordics – more specifically, Finland – found out. They talked to him, expressing their ‘concern.’ He wanted to scream at them – and scream at them, he did. “Now you care? Where were you before? I don’t need you; I don’t need any of you!”

They’d been surprised. Hurt. Worried. He didn’t care.

But they kept an eye on him for months after that. They forced him to stop – and deep down, he’d wanted to stop, anyway – but he kept the gloves on to hide the scars. Part of him liked the attention; they cared. There was always someone around.

But that stopped as soon as it was clear that he was ‘clean.’ Slowly, they distanced themselves again. And he was left alone with Mr. Puffin, who didn’t care what happened to him.

He pulls one of his gloves off, just enough to see the scars. He imagines there being red, shiny red oozing out of them. His heart skips a beat. He licks his lips. He glances over to the other Nordics.

He’ll get their attention.

They’ll notice him if he starts up again.

No promises if he’ll stop this time, though.

He likes it too much to let go.


	6. Pain

He’s fought the urge as long as he could, but he’s done fighting. He’s done waiting for the attention that he will never receive. He’s done dropping hints to the other Nordics that he’s losing it again. He’s done caring.

He sits on his bed, razor in hand. His pulse races. He wants this. It had been a mistake to stop in the first place, especially since the need to cut never went away. Sure, he knows that it isn’t exactly a good thing to slice open his skin, but what other choice does he have? It helps him breathe. It gives him control. Honestly, it became a part of him. And it doesn’t want to let him go.

He stares at the scars on his wrists, licking his lips in anticipation. He presses the sharp blade into his skin, carefully, slowly. It’s been a long time and he’s out of practice. But it’s like riding a bike, he realizes, as his mind stops racing and his hands do the work from memory. It’s like he never even stopped.

He hates the pain but he loves it at the same time. But it’s not enough. He presses harder. The numbness isn’t enveloping him. He needs to be numb. He needs to stop thinking. He’s getting desperate as, cut after cut, the numbness still doesn’t come. He starts slashing blindly at his skin, anywhere he can. That’s when he feels the numbness set in. He lies back on the bed, glad to be finally free from the pain of, well, everything.

“Iceland!”

He feels the bed sink under someone else’s weight. Someone is trying to stop the bleeding, but a part of him doesn’t want the bleeding to stop. He’s numb, and he likes it. He likes not having to worry about anything. He hears his name called again. He ignores it. He likes the numb.

“Iceland, snap out of it!” he hears. “Look at me. Look at me!”

With a start, he realizes that it’s Norway. Iceland realizes he’s never heard Norway so panicked before, so distraught before – not even when his secret was first revealed. Iceland forces himself to focus, groaning when the numbness is pushed back a bit. He turns his gaze onto Norway, who desperately wraps his bleeding arm.

“Stay focused, Iceland,” Norway orders. “You cut too deep.”

Even while half-conscious, Iceland can hear the underlying accusation. “I didn’t mean to,” he mumbles. Norway doesn’t meet his eyes, only wraps his arm. “I didn’t mean to,” he repeats.

Norway shakes his head. “Why would you do this? I thought … We all thought …”

“I wasn’t trying to kill myself,” Iceland says, more forcefully. Things had just gotten out of hand.

Norway’s eyes flashed. “But you still cut yourself, Iceland!”

“Because I can’t stop,” Iceland whispers hoarsely, tears of frustration slipping down his cheeks.

“You already stopped,” Norway says, voice low and angry. Iceland flinches. “This is the start of it again.”

“It never went away, Nor,” Iceland admits before he can stop himself. “The urge to cut. It never went away.”

Norway sighs, turns away once he’s sure the wound is wrapped. “I’m sorry I never noticed. I’m sorry I let this happen again.”

Iceland hates how Norway is disappointed in him. He hates how he slipped up. He hates himself. He hates everything. He hates how he started cutting in the first place, and how he’s now brought himself full-circle. The cycle will never end. He’ll always feel like this; he’ll always turn to the blade. And he hates it.

“I’m sorry, too,” he whispers.


End file.
